Epiphany

[Intro: Scratches by Chris Liggio]

[Verse 1: Breeze Brewin]
Behold the fungus among us
When dabbling with babbling, I sends the battle scene to the apocalypse
With this, you grab my cock, your lips be getting sort of puckery
Getting the Brewin gassed to save that ass, come stop the fuckery
My style'll leave you posing like a hitchhiker
Make me wanna bitch-microphone-slap that shady ass, you bullshit nigga
You fronted, said you didn't think too hot of me
But once you feel the vocal side of me, you'll say: "You got it, G"
I finds the virgin ears, I'm busting raw pops
You're saving the drops, trying to analyze my DNA
The verbal blueprint, even if you spend eternity, you're baffled, nigga
Having not the slightest clue of how I'm swinging
Bringing styles and flowing nastier than urine
See, my shit is pure and ghetto, embellished, demonic funk, and all that good shit
A bad nigga when it comes to grabbing mics
I love all women of the spectrum, fuck around
I'm stabbing dykes, and as I hurt 'em, I convert 'em
When it comes to honey dip skits
I'm leaving pussies sore as if you just delivered triplets
I flip shit. When niggas say the Brewin doesn't rhyme slick
I yokes 'em in the Heimlich just to get that fucking garbage out your throat
Mentally hardcore, there be no guard for defending against the shit I’m sending
Once you’re comprehending the ill funk aphrodisiac
Giving the hoodies woodies as I’m fucking up
Their head like brass knuckles giving noogies

[Hook: Samples with Scratches by Chris Liggio] (x4)
"Listen up, everybody, the bottom line"
"I just get down and I go for mines"

[Verse 2: Breeze Brewin]
I'll be's the hellifying word-breather, even Ripley can’t believe
I pull a stunt as if my name was Colt Seaver AKA The Fall Guy
I never stall—why? I’m hitting like Mattingly
Get your Funk & Wagnalls dictionary
Look under "Fat" and you’ll see my profile, so smile
You’re grinning like the Joker 'cause I chose to smoke a mic and let you witness
Get this through your thick skull: my shit is deadly
I kicks my verse niggas couldn’t offer competition with a medley
Of their works I smirks when booty niggas try and gat this
Survival of the fittest, call me fucking Tony Atlas at the podium
I pours my sodium in open flesh wounds as I mesh tunes
With the vocal joint to become the focal point
Brothers of funk soon discover I be deeper than that nigga Larry Fishburne’s Cover
Hover on the L, sort of like a stealth in the night
Then I makes the party jump even when it’s full of white men

[Hook: Samples with Scratches by Chris Liggio] (x4)
"Listen up, everybody, the bottom line"
"I just get down and I go for mines"

[Verse 3: Breeze Brewin]
Check it out
My writing sent enlightenment that had you squinting
Hinting to rewards of the Lord's charity received with clarity
I heave skillaful syllable as the brick I stick
In music mortar, making you think and raising my fort of architect
I comes to spark a TEC, mind barrages, massages, caress the piece/peace
The vocal acupuncture, your stress released like a hymen cracking
My rhyming slacking? Never that
Styles mysterious like under LL's hat
The curious become the furious and play the jury
Thus, I'm found guilty
Labeling my sound filthy with the gutter in my utter
A fat bitch goes: "mi-mi-mi"
I cut her in pieces, kill her sisters, daughters, and nieces
Anything related to such a thought
I crush, I fought hard representing wicked Juggaknot minds
I breaks it down to your English, I makes you say, "I'm gooder"
Verbs deeper than a hooker strictly boning seven-footers

[Hook: Samples with Scratches by Chris Liggio] (x4)
"Listen up, everybody, the bottom line"
"I just get down and I go for mines"

[Outro: Scratches by Chris Liggio]